


The Feeling of Being in Motion Again

by fictorium



Category: Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F, Femslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-05
Updated: 2012-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-30 16:12:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictorium/pseuds/fictorium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A relationship, and how it copes with Andy's traveling for work, and Miranda's boardroom battles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Feeling of Being in Motion Again

Miranda scowls at the ringing of the unanswered phone, comparing two shots of the latest uninspired Marchesa offerings under her desk lamp. There's something that suggests the bland images can be saved, that the spread can be improved, but the necessary detail that would normally leap out at her is proving elusive. It can be anything from the detail of a neckline to the sweep of fabric over the hip, but Miranda drops the proofs in exasperation as the phone continues to bleat.

"Emily," she sighs, pointedly, even though Emily's been working under Nigel for a year now. Rubbing her temples, Miranda finally remembers that she sent both assistants away to allow her to work in peace--in fact, she might have fired the new second for gross incompetence. Or, as Miranda's mood would call that today: breathing too loudly.

"Yes?" She snaps, picking up the phone herself. It certainly throws off the caller, that Miranda should answer her own office phone.

"Hey," a familiar voice says after a long moment, and Miranda feels the muscles in her shoulders relax just at the sound.

"Andrea," she says on the exhale, with a warmth that's been eluding her all week.

"I'm back," Andrea replies.

"Oh," Miranda says, pressing the fingers of her free hand against her desk. She places each finger down in turn, as though slowly hitting piano keys; the glass is cool and smooth beneath each fingertip, and it calms the sudden storm of emotion within her.

"Alaska was nice and all, but I'm feeling some affection towards Manhattan right now," Andrea continues, and Miranda can hear the gentle smirk.

"Manhattan?" Miranda asks. "Not Brooklyn?"

"Nope," Andrea confirms, before stepping into Miranda's line of sight and ending the call. She's a vision, dressed simply in black and framed by the two white desks. "Why would I go back to my empty apartment when you're right here?"

"Because I still have work to do?" Miranda says, and she can't quite keep the disappointment from her words. It's been a long and lonely week, but this spread has to be finalized before the morning print run. Irv is already harassing her on an hourly basis about costs, so there's no time for a reshoot or any delay in the print. It's a salvage mission, and Miranda can't trust it to anyone else.

"That's why I'm here, and not at your house," Andrea points out. "Now, where's my 'welcome home' kiss?"

Miranda would expect anyone else to come into her office, to approach her and wait for permission to initiate a kiss; especially here, in these halls where everyone defers to her. But for these past eight months, Andrea has been the exception all over again, just like when she worked at _Runway_.

"Fine," Miranda sighs, dropping every sheet back onto the desk and striding around it with newfound purpose. It only takes a few steps to be right in front of Andrea, within grasping, reaching, clutching distance of the body that has been absent from Miranda's bed for eight nights now.

The first kiss is tender, a non-verbal greeting that says much more than Miranda's feeble protestations about her workload. Andrea tastes of caramel and coffee, no doubt the fault of Starbucks, and feels like something that's been missing for too long. Miranda's almost embarrassed by the level of need, grateful she hasn't let slip about just how pathetic a situation she's in.

The second and third kisses carry far more intent--Andrea is the one to tug Miranda by the hips until their bodies are pressed tightly together, and Miranda lets her hands bury themselves in the long tresses of Andrea's plane-mussed hair.

"God, I missed you," Andrea confesses, when their lips part for more than a second. "This damn election."

"The life of a political reporter," Miranda sighs, pressing her forehead against Andrea's cooler one. "At least it's only once every four years."

"Don't forget mid-terms. And elections in other countries, if I get that far," Andrea warns, full of pragmatism these days.

"You will," Miranda speaks plainly, not one for saying what she doesn't mean.

“Thank you,” Andrea says, eyes suddenly brimming with emotion. She’s so quick to anger, to laugh, or to cry that Miranda often feels cautious--afraid of hurting this woman that she’s come to care for so deeply. How many people would laugh at the very idea of Miranda caring about the effect of her words and actions? Too many to count, no doubt.

“I should get back,” Miranda says, with a gesture towards her desk. Andrea looks at her greedily, the grip on Miranda’s hips much tighter in an instant.

“Will you take a little break with me first?” Andrea is pleading, but the smile remains on her face. She seems to think she’s cracked the code of manipulating Miranda, and for now Miranda is happy to grant her that impression. The harder times will come, because they always do, and perhaps then Andrea will find out how much she still has to learn. Tonight though, there are warm hands that can be felt through the soft wool of this wrap dress, and an almost magnetic pull to follow wherever Andrea might lead.

“Just a little one,” Miranda agrees, surprised that Andrea is instantly in motion, not stopping for Miranda’s coat or anything else they might need on a brief trip outdoors. Which possibly means that Andrea is intending a quickie somewhere in the building, and although Miranda has protested in the past that this is not an option there are a few empty conference rooms, two executive washrooms and one janitor’s closet that would tell a very different story.

They step into a waiting elevator, and immediately after pushing the button, Andrea pounces. She has Miranda backed into the corner under the sole security camera, leaving them free to misbehave at least a bit. True to form, Andrea lets one cool hand slip under the plunging neckline of Miranda’s dress. Miranda bites her lip as the gentle caress becomes more insistent, letting her head fall back to allow Andrea’s mouth full access to her neck.

Oh, this is what she has so desperately missed. Self-sufficiency is Miranda’s default setting, but although some _practicalities_ can be attended to by her own hand, there is nothing to replicate the feeling of Andrea’s full lips, or her wet, determined tongue. Miranda’s a half-second from suggesting they hit the emergency stop button and to hell with the cameras when the elevator pings that they’ve reached their destination.

They step out onto a dimly lit, but familiar floor. Miranda stops after her third step, turning to look at Andrea in confusion. If they were aiming for the executive suites, they’ve gone a floor too high. Only one set of offices occupy this level--those of Elias Clark’s Chairman. In fact, this top floor with its elongated windows and elevated ceilings was the one Miranda requested for _Runway_ after taking over as Editor-in-Chief years ago. Irv had moved his office from the 25th floor to take the space out of nothing more than spite.

“I have a surprise for you,” Andrea says airily, as though they’re stopping off for brunch at some undiscovered gem. With a comical tilt of her head, she urges Miranda on past the reception area and down the short hallway to the ostentatious doors that mark the domain of Miranda’s least favorite little man.

“If you’re here to vandalize his art collection, I assure you he won’t be able to tell the difference,” Miranda points out. “Although I do like the gesture.”

Andrea fumbles around in her bag for a moment, pulling out a crumpled post-it and then keying in the numbers from it onto the electronic lock. Miranda is both stunned and somehow still completely unsurprised when the door clicks open.

“No vandalism,” Andrea promises, even adding a mocking Girl Scout salute for good measure.

“Should I ask why you’ve put your considerable skills into getting that code?” Miranda fires back, making no move to open the unlocked door. Naturally, Andrea leans in to do exactly that.

“You’re about to find out,” Andrea whispers against Miranda’s ear, before slipping into the darkened office. Miranda huffs about it quietly for an extra few seconds, before turning the handle and following suit.

“Andrea,” Miranda calls out in the dimness. A lamp clicks into life on the ostentatious lump of wood that Irv calls a desk. To call it ugly would be an insult to ugly things everywhere, and at just the sight of it (and recalling a hundred irritating conversations conducted over it) Miranda feels her top lip curl in disgust. This ridiculous room lets a horrible little man think he holds some home court advantage by summoning her there, and even being there without his knowledge leaves Miranda feeling a need to mark her territory. She’ll be guiding _Runway_ to another record year even after Irv has fled to some tax haven or other; it’s just a case of getting rid of him sooner rather than later.

Andrea is illuminated perfectly in the old-fashioned library lamp, the yellow glow picking out the darkness of her eyes and the lines of her face in delicious contrast. Miranda hesitates, uncharacteristically shy, but also wanting to savor the sight. It’s moments like these that make her glad of having a near-photographic memory (a fact no assistant will ever learn, and one that Andrea is already having suspicions about).

“Were you aware,” Andrea says quietly, “that in every conversation we’ve had this week, you’ve mentioned Irv? And how much he’s annoying you?”

“I’m sure that’s an exaggeration,” Miranda defends herself, out of habit.

“I’m not mad at you,” Andrea soothes, her warm smile already in evidence. “But we both know he’s been trying to get under your skin even more than usual lately. The budget cuts, the rescheduling, the poaching of staff for other magazines--he’s been gunning for you even worse than in Paris.”

Miranda freezes at the mention of her sometime-favorite city; they don’t discuss that, they don’t discuss what happened then and how it repulsed Andrea so badly that she left Miranda without a second thought. Miranda’s been to Fashion Week twice since then, and will go again soon, but the name of the city never crops up in conversation.

“That’s just Irv,” Miranda says with a shrug. “He’s been trying to best me since I was awarded this job over his then-mistress. It happens.”

“That doesn’t sound like you, Miranda,” Andrea says as she beckons with one finger for Miranda to step closer. Miranda does. “You don’t let these things go without striking back, somehow.”

“I will,” Miranda admits. “But not at the expense of getting this issue perfect. There’ll be time to hit back, later.”

“I thought we could fire the opening shot tonight,” Andrea says, grinning quite wickedly. “Oh, Irv won’t know about it, of course. But we will.”

“What did you have in mind?” Miranda can feel the curiosity spiking along with arousal. She’s already put the pieces together.

“This,” Andrea whispers, before capturing Miranda’s mouth in a searing kiss. As their tongues meet, Miranda can feel herself being steered around until her ass makes contact with the edge of the desk.

“Oh,” she says when Andrea releases her lips long enough to kiss along Miranda’s jawline. Andrea seems to catalog every sensitive spot on Miranda’s skin, no matter how tiny, and hits them with unfailing accuracy. By the time Andrea grazes her teeth over Miranda’s earlobe, her knees are already trembling.

“Up you go,” Andrea says with a smirk, before bodily lifting Miranda right to where Andrea wants her. Miranda likes Andrea’s strength--the stresses of reporting have made her quite the gym aficionado, and Miranda revels in tracing each newly defined contour with fingers or tongue at every possible opportunity.

“This is a terrible idea,” Miranda murmurs, sweeping Andrea’s hair aside to kiss her throat. “We could be caught at any moment.”

“That’s a risk we’ll just have to take,” Andrea replies, cupping Miranda’s breasts through her dress. “Because I have no intention of stopping now. Do you?”

Miranda can’t think of a witty reply, and so she settles for unbuttoning the first button on Andrea’s slightly-creased shirt.

“That’s what I thought,” Andrea smirks again, but she busies herself with unzipping Miranda’s dress at the same time. Miranda should protest that there’s no need to strip for an office fumble, but she’s too eager to have Andrea touch her as much as possible, and so the complaint dies on her lips.

The soft wool that was tailored precisely to Miranda’s specifications comes off all too easy, and soon the dress is draped over Irv’s desk chair. Andrea rakes her eyes hungrily over the dark lace of Miranda’s bra, careening down towards the matching panties and garter belt that Miranda indulged in just in case there would be time for a meeting like this. Though her confidence is still largely rock-solid, the occasional moment strikes when she considers that a little extra enticement will keep Andrea’s interest and erase the years between them, at least temporarily. From the way Andrea goes slack, Miranda knows the extra effort was worth it, and she parts her stocking-clad legs to let Andrea step between them.

“You were waiting for me,” Andrea sighs happily. “You wore these,” she punctuates the sentiment with a gentle caress of Miranda’s thighs. “For me. You hoped I’d come to you tonight, didn’t you, Miranda?”

“Yes,” Miranda admits, her face flushing with embarrassment. “I didn’t know you’d come to the office, but I had hope.”

“Hope for what?” Andrea challenges, stepping back just a fraction. “That you’d get to see me do this?” She begins unbuttoning the rest of her shirt, shrugging the cotton to the floor just seconds later. “Or this?” She continues, unbuckling the belt on her jeans.

Miranda actually licks her lips (God, so _obvious_ ) at the sight. Though she’s long been a fan of ultra-feminine dresses and all the trappings of conventional female beauty, there’s no mistaking the extra wetness between her thighs at the sight of Andrea in her more androgynous work attire. There’s also no doubt that Andrea knows this, and enjoys taking full advantage of it.

“Kiss me,” Miranda pleads, a little hoarse. Andrea complies instantly, although she starts with just the briefest contact on Miranda’s lips, opting instead to kiss her way across Miranda’s collarbones and down across her breasts, stopping to tease at the lace boundary there.

“You want more?” Andrea asks, her breath ticklish against Miranda’s overheated skin. “You want me to take you right here on Irv’s desk?”

“Yes,” Miranda groans, grasping at the waistband of Andrea’s jeans to finish the task of undressing her. Instead, Andrea pushes herself against Miranda, letting her feel exactly what she’s packing beneath the flattering cut of her denim.

After the initial short-circuiting of her brain, that only spurs Miranda on in what is fast becoming some sort of frenzy, her own lingerie is dispensed with, and she congratulates herself mentally on having the foresight to pick underwear that ties in little silk bows. Andrea, for her part, trades kisses and pinches and caresses with shucking off her own remaining clothes until she stands before Miranda in nothing but a black leather harness and Miranda’s favorite dildo.

This is _exactly_ what Miranda wouldn’t admit she needed.

They kiss passionately once more, naked bodies pressed together as Andrea’s considerate addition nestles against Miranda’s wetness. Miranda has her fingers tangled in Andrea’s hair, tugging her down until those perfect, plump lips are skimming over Miranda’s oh-so-very erect nipples. It means Miranda has to lean back, and that she loses the contact of warm silicon all too soon, but as Andrea begins to suck and tease with flashes of teeth, Miranda finds herself happy to take whatever she’s given.

Not that she’s entirely passive--that’s never been her nature--because one of her hands is freed from silky chestnut strands and given free rein to touch everywhere on Andrea that she can reach. When Miranda indulges herself by raking her nails across Andrea’s creamy back, the vibrant hiss of pleasure from Andrea is as gratifying as the bright pink lines that emerge.

“Oh, Andrea,” Miranda murmurs, not sure she can form words more complicated than these. “I missed you.”

“Did you touch yourself, Miranda? Did you spend those lonely nights fucking yourself and wishing the fingers were mine?” Andrea is letting her hands tease and twist and stroke as she talks, her head level with Miranda’s once more.

“Maybe,” Miranda teases, not willing to give away her secrets just yet.

“Did you think of me coming home and doing this to you? Is that what all those filthy messages you sent me were supposed to start?”

Miranda blushes, this electronic side of their relationship is still new to her, and it requires a staggering amount of trust that she’s still just a little uneasy about. It’s all very well to have a lover who is also a journalist, but committing sexual fantasies to text and email under her own name or number is a leap of faith that Miranda has to hope will never come back to bite her on the ass. But she suspects it won’t, as Andrea bites down gently on her collarbone.

“It’s not my fault,” Miranda says between happy moans. “That you’re so suggestible.”

“It’s entirely your fault that I’ve spent the last two days distracted from my article by the thought of having you on a desk, like this. You put that idea out there,” Andrea points out, and Miranda feels a hand slip between them to guide the dildo into position. “I just improved the plan a little bit.”

With that, the head is pressing into Miranda and she sighs happily as her body reacts to the new sensations.

“I think you like how risky this is, Miranda,” Andrea continues with her monologue. “Knowing that someone--Irv, his assistant, a janitor--could walk in and catch us at any moment.” She thrusts her hips, removing any chance of Miranda being able to reply. Oh dear God, it feels good.

“Wouldn’t that just torture our esteemed Mr. Ravitz? Watching me fuck you senseless right here on his desk, like he will never, ever get a chance to? You get that he’s intimidated by how hot you are, right? You know that he’s just jealous that he never stood a chance? But here I am, and I’ve got just what you need.”

Miranda should have been thrown off by the mention of her nemesis, but Andrea is right about the thrill of potentially getting caught. So much of Miranda’s life is not her own, between the demands of work and motherhood, and so acting so selfishly like this is turning her on at least as much as the gentle rocking of Andrea’s hips. She’s keeping the thrusts shallow and slow for now, knowing that Miranda is a fan of the slower approach, at least some of the time.

“I wouldn’t let anyone else have me like this,” Miranda confesses, rubbing her thumbs across Andrea’s exposed nipples. “I would never have thought of coming here.”

“But we did. And now, next time you’re fighting about the budget or using the jet, you’ll be able to look at this desk and know that I had you--dripping wet--on top of it,” Andrea says, her words ending in a moan because of Miranda’s touch.

“Oh, please,” Miranda gasps, and suddenly slow isn’t going to be enough. Leveraging herself against Andrea’s slender shoulders, Miranda slams her hips forward and Andrea takes the hint right away. They’re truly _fucking_ now, hands grasping and mouths meeting in frantic, snatched kisses as their bodies thrust in a much harder rhythm. Miranda can feel a week of frustration building in her, that low pull in her base that says release is coming (despite Andrea’s accusations, Miranda’s been too tired to take care of her own needs these past few days).

“God, Miranda. You’re so fucking gorgeous,” Andrea says over the huffs of breath that accompany each thrust. Miranda responds by digging her nails into those perfectly squeezable ass cheeks, urging Andrea on and on. On the edge already, Miranda lets her right hand slip down her own abdomen, seeking out her clit and somewhere between the thrusting and the circling with her fingertips, she’s coming with a shout that echoes in the quiet of the room. Not to mention that when Andrea reluctantly pulls out, there’s quite the little flood to mark the wood even further.

“Damn,” Miranda manages to say, still struggling to catch her breath. She has enough motor function to fumble with the straps of the harness, letting it fall from Andrea’s hips once it’s loosened.

“I’m so close,” Andrea whines, and there’s no disputing how wet she is when Miranda’s fingers push between her thighs.

“Chair,” Miranda says, with a tilt of her head. Andrea falls into the visitor’s chair that Miranda has occupied a hundred times, and spreads her legs without being asked. Miranda sinks to her knees (standing isn’t an option yet anyway) and with more enthusiasm than finesse buries her face between Andrea’s legs. Her licking and sucking may not be the most polished of their time together, but it takes hardly any time at all until Andrea is bucking up against Miranda’s mouth, almost screaming when Miranda presses down on Andrea’s legs and coaxes a second climax from her less than a minute later.

“Oh, oh, fuck,” Andrea groans as she comes down, her hand clutching at Miranda’s hair is the last part of her to relax. “That mouth of yours, Miranda.”

“Welcome home,” Miranda says with a grin, wiping her mouth delicately. “Now, as soon as you get over your afterglow, we are getting out of here.”

Her legs are steady again, and so Miranda, feeling slightly ridiculous in just her stockings and garters, begins the task of collecting their discarded clothing. She dumps Andrea’s things in the recovering woman’s lap, and begins the task of hastily redressing herself.

Andrea moves, eventually, just as Miranda turns to have her dress zipped. They manage to make themselves presentable without ever needing to speak, though Andrea reserves a pointed smirk for when she shoves her accessory back into her purse. Miranda greets it with an eye roll, and order is once more restored to the universe.

“I really do have to go back to work,” Miranda explains, her hand already on the door handle.

“I know,” Andrea says, pressing a quick kiss to the back of Miranda’s neck. “I should go home, unpack and whatever.”

“Will you come to the townhouse tomorrow? The girls are--”

“With their father. I know,” Andrea replies, and Miranda can hear the smirk without turning around to see it. “I’ll be over at lunchtime.”

As they walk back to the elevator in companionable silence, Miranda’s mind is ticking over again, consumed by work. She can see now the problem with the Marchesa layout--she’ll have someone bleach out the backgrounds a little in Photoshop and rearrange the order to show the progression through the collection. It all seems much simpler now that she’s relaxed.

Miranda steps off, alone, on the 17th floor. Andrea holds the door for a moment, giving Miranda one of those lazy smiles that she’s come to cherish.

“Goodnight, Miranda,” Andrea says as she releases the door and presses the button for the ground floor. At a momentary loss, Miranda simply watches the doors slide closed before marching back to her office.

Her muscles might be aching, and she feels a pressing need for a shower, but it won’t take long to fire off an email with the instructions. Then she can approve the final layout in the morning before the print run and have a day of leisure to be spent with Andrea.

And that, Miranda thinks, is exactly how she wants it.

*

Monday morning rolls around, and Miranda is irritated by her own lateness. Leaving her bed this morning took an almost Herculean effort, and Andrea’s presence was a continual sabotage on her process of dressing for the day.

She’s sweeping into her office, hurling her coat and purse at poor, hapless Amanda, when she is given the message.

“--and Mr. Ravitz would like to see you about the shareholders’ presentation as soon as you have a moment.”

“I’ll do that now,” Miranda snaps. “Where is he?”

“Uh, uh, Mr. Ravitz? He’s uh, he’s in his office. Ma’am,” Amanda stammers, and it takes considerable self-control on Miranda’s part not to laugh out loud. _Ma’am_? Any other morning and the stupid girl would be fired for that alone.

And in that spirit of distraction, Miranda makes it all the way to Irv’s secretary’s desk before a fresh compulsion to laugh hits her. Oh, this is going to be absolutely priceless, and poor Irv will have absolutely no idea why.

Just as she’s trying to get the dull secretary’s attention, Irv’s heavy office door swings open, revealing the man himself.

“Miranda!” He greets her, and the veneer of friendliness slips before the third syllable. “Well, are you coming?”

And maybe she’s human after all, because that’s the moment when Miranda completely cracks up.

“Yes, yes,” she manages to say through her own helpless giggles. Irv looks at her like she’s lost her mind (and perhaps she has, after all).

One thing’s for sure though, this is one conversation featuring Irv that Andrea is going to be absolutely thrilled to hear about.  



End file.
